


The Silencing Machine

by RurouniHime



Series: Zero Sum series [3]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spy, Blood, Conspiracy, Guns, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Near Death Experience, Nightmares, Partnership, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Sharing a Bed, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-27
Updated: 2011-07-27
Packaged: 2017-10-21 19:40:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/228999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RurouniHime/pseuds/RurouniHime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Agency has work to do. Might already have done it. And it’s bad enough that they need a dead body to point the finger at later.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Silencing Machine

**Author's Note:**

> Title borrowed from Nine Inch Nails’ song Mr. Self Destruct.

They choose a motel on a lonely junction. Aside from a gas station with two pumps and a closed diner, there’s nothing but roads fading into the dark.

Jensen goes in alone and pays in cash while Jared waits with the car. The rooms abut the parking lot; Jensen pulls up in front of number seven and Jared gets out, one hand braced on the top of the car. He’s swaying, a gentle drift forward and back.

Jensen unlocks the room and lets him in, then takes the car to fill up the tank. It’s not Chris’ car anymore; they left the Ford in a supermarket parking lot and boosted a Nissan for the mileage. Tomorrow Jensen will find another parking lot, make another switch.

When he returns, Jared is in a chair out of eye-line from the door, aiming the Glock at Jensen’s head. When he recognizes Jensen, he lowers the weapon and gets to his feet. He’s pulled the shades; just one lamp beams beside the bed. Jensen slips the chain and bolt, then shoves Jared’s chair up under the doorknob.

Jared’s pallor is still severe. He shrugs his coat off and tosses it over the lone table. Jensen watches each stilted movement.

“Let me see.”

Jared halts. Jensen moves closer, lifts Jared’s shirt up, easing sleeves over arms and freeing Jared’s head.

The bandage is discolored but the wrapping remains firm. Jensen cuts it free with his knife and splays his hands across Jared’s belly and the small of his back, nudging him around into the light. Jared’s chest is a mottle of aging bruises. The stitches are holding. Jensen probes the area with his fingers. He hits a sore spot and Jared flinches, muscle jerking beneath his skin.

“How’s the pain, one to ten?”

Jared inhales slowly. “High six. Probably.”

Could be an infection. Jared’s skin is warm, beating heat into Jensen’s palms, but he doesn’t feel abnormally hot.

“I’m…” Jared’s breath halts again at a touch. “Everything hurts.”

Jensen can feel the stiffness of Jared’s muscles. The body under his hands has taken more of a pummeling than Jensen wants to think about.

“Gonna check your rib,” he murmurs. He touches Jared’s sternum, remembers the sound the rib made when it gave way. Jared’s hand jerks up, clutches Jensen’s wrist. Jensen flattens his palm carefully over the area. He looks up and Jared is looking back.

“Does breathing hurt?” The question is nearly too soft. Jared shakes his head.

The rhythm of Jared’s heart is distracting, thumping under hot skin. Jared’s chin dips, just a little. The gentle rush of his breath touches Jensen’s face. He leans away, but Jared keeps hold of his wrist. Pulls him back.

“You need to rest, Jay.”

It comes out too fast. Jared lets go of his hand. The exhaustion hits Jensen just as he loses Jared’s body heat. He feels dizzy.

He checks the windows, listening as Jared pulls off the rest of his days-old clothing. It’s slow going. Jensen can hear every pained hiss. When he hears Jared’s belt buckle clink, he heads for the bathroom. His hand shakes as he unwraps a plastic cup and fills it with water from the sink. His eyes hurt. He should have dropped ages ago, Jared even sooner, and Jensen can’t think about that, all the ‘what ifs’.

He passes the bed on his way to the main door— did he lock it?— and Jared reaches up. Wraps his fingers around Jensen’s wrist again. Jensen looks down and remembers threadbare sheets over bloodied skin. Sweating stone walls. Jared’s face too sallow, his breathing too uneven. Jensen almost drops the cup; water sloshes over his fingers.

Jared draws him in.

Jensen gives up and sits beside him. Sets the cup down on the bedside table and turns his hand until he has a hold on Jared’s wrist, too.

**

Even with all his gunfire, all their shouting, the scream cuts through. A single, ragged cry, and Jared’s the one making it.

Jensen shoots high for cover, jumps up and shoulders through the door, praying Jared is on the other side. He shoots the stranger he finds instead. Big guy, just inside the room.

Then he sees Jared, and the second man with his hand on the hilt of a blade.

Blood.

He puts two rounds in the man’s chest. The room goes silent. Beyond thick walls, the wail of the alarms hammers on. Jensen shuts the door, rolls the nearer of the dead men against it, and turns to face the tableau.

**

The motel shower is large, but Jared can’t use it: he can barely stand upright. Jensen cleans the skin around his wound as carefully as he can, then drags the remaining chair into the bathroom and wets a towel. He knows Jared feels filthy; he always does after a—

A mission.

“Call—” Jensen clears his throat. “Let me know when you’re finished.”

Jared’s eyes dig holes through his skin. Jensen feels a slow churning inside himself, floodwaters rising steadily. He can’t see the end. Can’t see what will happen when the rim spills over.

He tucks his gun into his belt and spends the time sorting through his pack, sorting Chris Kane’s clothing, neatly folded. He separates items for the two of them and tries not to think past the banality of it.

When Jared emerges again, he comes up to Jensen and holds out his hand. Jensen stares at it dully.

“Go shower, Jen.”

He shuts his eyes. “You need to rest.”

“So make it fast.” Jared’s tone is low but resolute. He motions with his fingers. “Come on.”

Jensen hands over the gun.

Getting clean feels rushed. Anticlimactic. Jensen towels himself dry, then puts on a pair of Chris’s jeans and a t-shirt. He stares at himself in the mirror, bares his teeth. They need supplies: toothbrushes, more clean clothing, pain meds, more first aid supplies. Food. All the things he takes for granted.

He leans against the sink and curses silently.

When he comes out, he goes straight back to his pack. His hands shake at first, but he fists them. Squeezes. Tries again and finds what he’s looking for.

He walks back to the bed. Jared is slumped, staring blankly at the door to the parking lot. Jensen touches his shoulder.

“I need to get your chip out, and I need you to do mine.”

Jared’s eyes flick to him and hold. Slowly, as if dreaming, Jared holds out his arm.

“Mine’s—” Jared clears his throat. “Mine’s in my arm.”

He pulls his sleeve up. Jensen runs his fingers over the inside of Jared’s upper arm and feels it, a tiny, invisible lump. He meets Jared’s gaze. “Gonna use the scalpel, then get it with tweezers. Okay?”

Jared nods and Jensen gets to work.

He cleans the blade, the tweezers, and then swabs Jared’s arm. The cut is made swiftly; Jared tenses everywhere except his bicep. A single sound and then he’s silent. Jensen gets the chip out in one try and sticks a butterfly over the incision.

He cleans the equipment again— last of the alcohol— and hands it to Jared. Then he pulls his shirt off and turns around.

“Mine’s in my shoulder.” He reaches, feels for the bump near his nape. Jared’s fingers touch down and Jensen guides them to the right spot. Nothing happens and Jensen shifts.

“Jared?”

Jared squeezes his shoulder.

The swab is cold and the cut stings like a motherfucker. Jensen clenches his hands in his lap and struggles to hold still. Tries to ignore the feeling of the tweezers plucking.

Jared grunts. “Can’t… Damn it. Let me try again.”

Jensen shuts his eyes and endures it. He can feel a trickle of blood creeping down his back. The image of so much more blood assaults him and he feels nauseated, and then Jared’s telling him he’s got it, wiping him down. Tacking him together.

Jensen takes the chip from Jared without a word and heads for the bathroom. One flush and they’re gone. He breathes.

He returns to Jared slowly and finds him subdued, tweezers still between his fingers, dotted with Jensen’s blood. Guilt at his own abruptness swings in; Jensen bandages Jared’s arm, apologizing silently with each strip of gauze.

Jared takes the gauze and dresses Jensen’s shoulder with sure fingers.

“Sorry.” It’s a murmur. “Bet that hurt.”

Jensen shakes his head. “It’s fine. It’s _done_.”

**

He’s fresh out of medical school when they approach him. At first, Jensen thinks they’re CDC.

 _I haven’t done my residency yet._ No point getting anyone’s hopes up.

The woman is older than him, greying hair tucked into an austere bun. She’s tall. Her lips are thin, one corner rising into what could be a smile. _I think we can find better uses for your skills._

Jensen gets his residency in the middle of firefights, in ramshackle safe houses and under sweltering tropical heat. He learns how to turn the most rudimentary equipment into tools that save four out of five lives.

**

Jared lies slack, one arm hanging off the table. And the knife juts up out of his midsection. The compound alarms blare through the walls.

Jensen holds his breath and sets his fingers against Jared’s throat. It’s there, a thready thud-thud, a beat to which Jensen can move. The skin of Jared’s neck purples even as he watches, ugly finger-shaped stripes. Jensen’s nerves fire, but the people responsible are dead already. He can’t kill them again.

The cuts littering Jared’s torso and arms look superficial. Jensen’s back to the knife. He realizes the point has gouged deep and Jared is—

Pinned to the table.

Two wounds, straight through the abdomen. He can’t remove this knife.

He moves fast, automatic: stoops to make sure the torturer is truly dead, then levels his gun and kicks open the second door in the room. It opens onto another room. A desk, a broken chair. Cupboards. He yanks them open and finds files, loose papers. A can of peaches.

Fuck. They must have implements here, tools, and alcohol to strengthen the burn during torture. Jensen wrenches another door open, expecting another office, and finds a closet. On the shelves, the answer to his prayers.

For the first time, Jensen’s hand shakes. He flicks the safety and tucks the gun in at the small of his back.

**

When Jensen shoots out his own femoral artery, he blacks out in the ambulance and wakes up in a hospital bed. It’s dull as rocks for days. He’s not allowed to walk around. He’s barely allowed to move.

The ward is quiet on the fourth day when Jared walks in holding a stack of magazines and a Wendy’s bag.

 _Two and a half pints, man._ Jared tosses a sandwich into Jensen’s hands and sprawls in the chair beside the bed. Grins. _I’ll put it on your tab._

Jensen exhales. The pairing is not only in the skills, but in the blood type. In a pinch, an agent going deep brings his or her own donor along.

 _They made me eat chili._ Jared dips a French fry into his chocolate Frosty and pops it into his mouth. _It was torture._

Jensen smacks his leg. _Yeah, I’m sure._

**

He makes do with a box of latex gloves and a kit of surgical needles. Bandages. Nurse’s tape. There’s a small basin; he upends a bottle of isopropyl alcohol into it and dumps the needles and surgical thread in. Jared breathes shallowly on the table, as if he’s just asleep. Jensen grabs a thin blade. Dunks his hands and winces at the sting of nicks and cuts.

It’s field medic equipment. Too crude for what he’s going to make it do. Jensen doubles up on the gloves and judges the wound, thanking god for blisteringly bright interrogation lights, hoping Jared managed to get far enough to the side to protect his intestines, his kidney.

He’s going to lose a lot of blood.

Jensen returns to the supply room. There’s medical tubing, but it’s old and yellow, a touch away from splitting. He swears and throws the coil away hard, his momentum nearly carrying him to the floor. He pulls himself upright, doesn’t allow time to feel the failure. Goes back to Jared’s side.

Knife out. Fix him. Sew him up. Get him out.

Jensen wads up a load of sterile bandages, gets a grip on the hilt, and counts to three. He jerks the blade up as hard and straight as he can.

The wound pumps blood once the blade is gone. Jensen stuffs Jared’s front with gauze and closes up the hole in his back first. It’s not large, barely needs five stitches, but gravity will do its own damage and he needs that wound closed, unable to seep.

Feeling around inside Jared’s body is the worst thing he’s ever had to do. Jensen bites his cheek to bleeding, not allowing thought. Just habit. Just skill.

Something’s oozing, he can feel the pulse of it under his fingers. Jensen locates the torn vessel and clamps onto it. He dunks his other hand into the bowl of alcohol and fishes another needle and a length of thread out. Sutures up the tiniest of slits.

The oozing slows, then stops. He sops up what he can with gauze. Takes his time, unwilling to overlook a single detail. Jared’s kidney is untouched, his intestines whole. Jensen swears over and over again in relief.

He goes to close up the wound and falters, hands trembling just over Jared’s belly. If he’s missed something, if he closes Jared up and Jared’s still bleeding inside— The urge to go back in, double and triple check, probe until there is no doubt, is overpowering.

 _You know your business,_ he rasps aloud in the quiet. _You know your business._

He checked. There was nothing. He has to believe it, trust himself. Every second Jared stays open, he’s at greater risk for infection.

Jensen sutures the incision with rapid strokes.

**

Jared takes a stray bullet in Central America, a through-and-through just above his elbow that bleeds ferociously. Jensen feels the jolt as Jared stumbles into him. Then Jared grabs his arm, shoves him forward again, and they run.

When all they can do is wait for extraction, Jared slumps down to the ground, laughing. Of all things.

 _Damn it, Jared_ — There’s nothing Jensen can do but wrap it up with his jacket, cinch tight and hope Jared hasn’t left much more than a pint in the forest behind them.

The chopper doesn’t come. Wind whips overhead anyway, thrashing the trees, and Jensen aims them for a house just inside the tree line, ready to placate any residents. But the house is empty, a summer home abandoned. Jared’s eyes hold the knowledge of their predicament. Too old, too much age in his face.

Jensen looks away and feels it then: this guy is special. Unique. Not because he’s good at his job or because he still has a sense of humor after years of this. It’s because Jensen can’t watch him die. Can’t let it happen.

**

He’s been in the Agency cell for two days when Brown enters and tosses something on the table. _Delivery for you._

Jensen allows himself a moment to look, to scrutinize the object, determine if it’s real. His face feels shellacked in place when he leans back and looks Brown squarely in the eye.

Brown’s eyes glitter. Jensen remains passive, carefully blank.

 _You’re all alone now,_ Brown sing-songs, the soothing hiss of a snake. _Enjoy your stay._

Jensen raises an eyebrow. Tilts his head at the door. Brown laughs and leaves the room.

Jensen stares at the closed door for a long time.

He never imagined Jared dead, not even in the jungle when he beat and breathed and swore the life back into Jared’s body. Now, Jensen imagines it and something inside him shivers, frail and thin.

He’s unprepared.

All night, he sits with the thing in his hand, twisting it over and over. When the lights flicker on— the only way he knows it’s morning— Jensen says the words. Not aloud: they’ll hear. But to himself.

 _Jared’s alive. Jared’s still alive._

Today, though, his body knows differently. Somewhere deep, he doesn’t believe.

**

The distance between compound and bunker is almost an eternity, and the jungle is tightly woven. He jogs it as best he can while pulling Jared behind, feet twisting in roots, dragging through mud. When he finally reaches the building, tucked nearly out of sight amongst the foliage, his legs try to give out on him.

Instead, Jensen leaves the litter outside and ducks into the bunker, weapon drawn. There are cobwebs in the corners but the mattress looks clean enough. He runs a hand over the sheets and realizes Jared put them on the bed.

Jared swept the place out when he first arrived. Jared dusted off the lone chair. Jared slept here last.

Jensen sways. He bites into his tongue to ground himself and goes back outside.

Jared’s skin is ghostly. The humidity clings to his forehead and throat in a fine sheen. Jensen checks his pulse. It’s weak, fluttering like the wings of a moth.

He drags Jared inside, hoists him up onto the bed, and gets him out of his damp clothes.

**

Jensen remembers with a start.

“What?” Jared asks from the motel bed. He pushes up on his elbows, eyes following Jensen’s stride across the room. “What’s wrong?”

He can’t explain, not yet. Doing is all he has the self-control for. Jensen plunges back into his pack, all the way to the bottom. For one clenching moment, he thinks it’s lost again. Fallen out of the bag somewhere between here and the Agency. Then his fingers brush tightly bound string with frayed ends.

He comes back to the bedside.

“What, Jensen?” Jared’s voice is edged, almost harsh. Jensen sits down and holds his hand out to Jared, palm up.

Jared goes completely still. Even the quiver in his arms from holding himself upright ceases. He stares down at the object in Jensen’s hand. His eyes go wide and his fingers fly to his left wrist.

“I—” Jared reaches. Touches what Jensen is holding. “Forgot all about it.”

Jensen’s hand trembles as Jared’s fingers lift the bracelet away.

**

Jared wears a woven cord bracelet on his left wrist. In the field, it goes around his ankle, out of sight under layers of clothing and the dark leather of boots.

 _My baby sister made it,_ Jared says one night, arm extended, his wrist in Jensen’s hands so he can look. The knots are hard and smooth from years of wear, shiny as lacquer on the underside where the cord rests directly against Jared’s skin.

 _It was brown and black for a long time._ Jared’s mouth quirks at the edges.

Jensen turns his wrist over and finds the lumps of reinforced knots where the threads broke and Jared cobbled them back together. It’s all the same color now, coal-dark with greying edges, molded together and inseparable.

**

Jensen knows they can see everything that happens in his cell. For a long time, he sits still and stares straight ahead.

The bracelet coils on the table where Brown tossed it. Eventually, Jensen can’t hold it together anymore. His body hurts; the tears feel hot on his cheeks. He wipes them away, wipes them again, then gives up and covers his face with both hands. It’s difficult to sit up. Each attack wracks him hard and leaves him without enough air.

They’ll lie. He knows this. They will say anything to break him, demoralize him.

But… he won. He fought back, used his entire arsenal, wrestled the life back into Jared, and _they_ , the two of them, won. All of it so that Jared could die anyway?

Jensen curls up on his side on the pallet, unable to see anymore, and cries.

**

He realizes what he really feels for Jared the day Jared tells him he’d wanted to have kids if he hadn’t become a spy.

**

Jensen opens the door to the bunker and finds a third person in the room, bent over the bed. Bent over Jared. They’re struggling; bare feet kick under the sheets. Jensen races across the room, sticky with the jungle. His hands slip on the man’s jaw. He gets a grip, wrenches sideways and back, hears the snap of bones parting.

The man slumps back into his arms. It’s Jared. Jared’s neck at an odd angle, Jared’s face staring blankly up at the ceiling.

Jensen comes awake with a shout and falls off the pallet, hits the hard stone of the floor. Pain blooms in his hip. The air is odorless and dry, the cell fluorescent-bright. The entire place hums, the ghost of the Agency’s machinery.

He sits on the floor and clutches his head in his hands. Concentrates on what’s real. What he thinks is real.

**

 _Do you like your job?_

Jensen lifts his eyes, looks at his new partner— _Abel, name’s Abel_ — over the top of his water glass.

The guy looks younger than he is, but he’s tall, good-looking, and skilled with any number of weapons. He’s a stunt-puller, unorthodox. He’s a doer. Jensen’s not exactly sure how he feels about it all yet.

 _Yeah,_ he answers. Shrugs. _Yeah, I do._

**

 _You think he’ll come back here for you._

It’s not a question. Jensen raises his head and finds Fuller standing just inside the cell door. _Who’re we talking about?_

Fuller’s lips shiver into a not-smile. _I thought he’d gone soft. But he took himself right out of there. Didn’t he?_

Jensen doesn’t move. It’s a few hours since he woke up and found himself in the Agency’s prison. His head still aches. His skin feels caked, covered in film, and his eyes burn, desperate to close again. Fuller looks almost wistful.

They won’t kill him now. It should be a relief, but it isn’t. They’ll use him to draw Jared out if they can.

But Fuller leans in close, closer than is wise, and looks Jensen in the eye. _Do you know what legitimate means is?_

Jensen gets angry in spite of himself, but manages to keep it down. He doesn’t bother to answer.

 _It’s when the trouble an individual causes outweighs his set of skills. You and your partner are a liability, Ackles._

Jensen raises an eyebrow at the wall. _Why, thank you, sir._

The back of Fuller’s hand catches him across the mouth. Jensen can’t stop the snap or the pain that follows, radiating across his face. Fuller’s smile grows. He straightens slowly and moves to the door. On his way through, he speaks again.

 _But I think—_ His tone is overly fond— _you can still do something for us. Waste not, want not. All that tripe._

 _Hmm._ Jensen swipes dirt from his shoulder with his middle finger.

 _He left you here with us._

Jensen shakes his head and licks blood from his lip. _Nah. I just missed you, Fuller._

He can feel Fuller’s eyes on him.

 _You think you know him, Ackles. Don’t you?_

Jensen doesn’t look away from the wall until long after the door clangs shut.

**

He’ll be a scapegoat. Like Jeff Morgan was. Like Jared was meant to be.

The Agency has work to do. Might already have done it. And it’s bad enough that they need a dead body to point the finger at later.

**

The flutter of Jared’s pulse disappears from beneath Jensen’s fingers. He starts compressions, harder, _harder_ , Jared’s ribs buckle one by one, his heart stays quiet, his skin is the color of dirty snow. His eyes stare up at the ceiling, jumping with each shove of Jensen’s hands, a parody of life.

Jensen explodes upright, covered in sweat. The room is too dark; his limbs are tangled— God, where—? He hits something cold with his hand and finds a gun amongst the sheets.

Bed. Motel. And Jared is—

 _Fuck._ Wasn’t supposed to sleep, he was supposed to watch, fucking damn it. Jensen reaches, certain for one horrible second that he’s in bed with a corpse, back in the jungle and Jared’s dead, but the body he feels is warm and close, clean of blood-smell, infused instead with the city: gasoline and cool air and stale car upholstery.

Jensen’s muscles begin a spasm that knocks his hands into Jared, and he forgets the gun.

Jared jerks. A hand clamps over Jensen’s. “Mm— what? Jen?”

The sound of that whisper stops him cold. He sees the rapid blink, the sheen of Jared’s eyes in the dark, and he’s… he can’t stop himself.

He grabs Jared, runs his hands over Jared’s face and throat and shoulders, so much _heat_ , drags them together and presses his mouth to Jared’s face, his lips, forehead, chin, cheeks, everywhere he can. He can’t _stop_.

He only realizes he’s crying when Jared takes his face in both hands and forces him still, their noses bumping with each breath. Jensen’s so tired, of running, of fear, of not knowing. He heaves into sobs, can’t stop moving, trying to get the contact back, the rush of Jared’s breath over his skin, proof, fucking proof that Jared is alive, he’s still here. Hasn’t left Jensen alone.

Jared forces a firm kiss, open mouth to open mouth, the sharp sting of teeth. He strokes Jensen’s hair and tucks his head close beneath his chin.

“Shh, Jen, s’okay. S’alright. Alright.”

He holds Jensen there in the dark, the hard press of the gun under his thigh, and Jensen tries to breathe again.

**  
**  
**

Sometime past midnight in the jungle, Jared’s heart stops.

Jensen’s half asleep when Jared’s chest fails to rise beneath his hand. He jumps, blinks. Looks around the bunker’s single room.

 _Not breathing._

“Jared?” He grabs Jared’s wrist and waits. Nothing. There’s nothing.

Jensen lunges for the flashlight and flips it on. Jared’s skin is a ghastly grey. Jensen’s head swims. He puts his cheek close to Jared’s mouth and feels nothing.

“No, no, no, _no_.” Jensen yanks the pillow from beneath Jared’s head. He swipes a finger into Jared’s mouth, then tilts his head back, pinches his nose, and forces air into his lungs. One— two— he pushes back down the bed, straddles Jared’s waist and starts compressions. Jared’s head flops on the bed with each one, the head of a ragdoll.

Jensen’s dizzy, still not certain he’s awake. He can see the sharp line of Jared’s stitches below his arm, clean and perfect and fucking _useless_. The flashlight rolls back and forth on the mattress, throwing ugly shadows over Jared’s face and body.

Jensen scrambles off him after fifteen and breathes for him again. “C’mon, Jared. God—”

No pulse.

Jensen’s eyes sting. He straddles Jared again, forcing compressions, counting aloud on bursts of air. No, fuck, not like this. He found him, he fucking _found_ Jared and sewed him up and dragged him out, and now Jared’s going to die in this ignoble little bunker where no one knows what he’s done, what they’ve done. The whole time, Jared never even opened his eyes. Never saw Jensen’s face.

He feels a rib snap beneath his hands and loses it.

“Jared!” he shouts, exhausted. No, fucking _no_ , please, no, breathe, please breathe, fuck, _breathe—_

Jared’s chin jerks to the side, to the fucking _side_ , and Jensen nearly falls off of him, heart stuck in his throat, trying to find a pulse at Jared’s neck. Jensen holds his breath, searching with his fingertips, his own heartbeat threatening to drown everything out, and _there_ it is, a flutter, another. Another.

“Oh, _yes_ , Jared, you beautiful son of a bitch.” Jensen grabs Jared’s face and kisses his forehead hard. He can see the rise and fall of Jared’s chest again, the color creeping back into his cheeks. “Oh, god.”

It catches him then, all at once. Jensen shudders into a sob, then another, until his body shakes and he can’t stop. He curls down over Jared, trying not to touch him.

Except for his hand.

~fin~


End file.
